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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25078585">Mama Bear</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellenar_Ride/pseuds/Ellenar_Ride'>Ellenar_Ride</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>External Links [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Legend of Zelda &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bears, Compatible with Mending Links, Fluff, Frankly Unnecessary Amounts of Poetic Prose, Gen, Literal Bears, So Many Bears Y'all, Tiny bit of Angst, Visiting home</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:34:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,391</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25078585</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellenar_Ride/pseuds/Ellenar_Ride</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Link, the Hero of Men,</em> is a mask he wears in the city. <em>He</em> is a creature of the woods, and he takes every opportunity he gets to return.</p><p>(Or: This bearer of the hero's spirit was raised by bears, and he's perfectly happy with that, thank you very much.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>External Links [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592038</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Mama Bear</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He runs through the forest in nothing but his skin, shedding his identity as <em>Link, the Hero of Men</em> with every step the way he had abandoned the cloth trappings of civilization he calls hero’s garb at the edge of the woods: wholly and completely, with no regrets. Here among the trees, reconnecting with his roots, he can feel the weight of the world dripping from his shoulders—let some other Atlas take up the burden of it, some other Heracles. He has swift feet and strong hands and sharp teeth, and that is all he needs on this side of the line separating the domestic lands from those untamed places at the edges of the world.</p><p>His calloused feet know this path, know every rock and every root, and he flings himself forward with reckless abandon. His future lies behind him, his past before, and he has made his choice. At least for today. At least for the summer. He stops outside of Silver’s cave, the cave she has denned in for over a decade and a half, and hears her wuffing as he approaches. A threat, a warning, a command to keep away.</p><p>He takes a single step forward and coos back like a cub. The warning call stops abruptly, replaced by a low grunt of concern. He creeps closer on steady feet, still cooing, and as he nears the entrance of the den he is met with the round face of a black bear. He stretches out a hand to let her smell him—they have danced this reunion tune a dozen times over, but it never hurts to be careful.</p><p>She snuffles at his hand, then starts purring; now that he’s certain she recognizes him, he doesn’t hesitate to reach out and et her shoulder, carding his fingers through her fur. The old lady is in fine form still, he thinks with a sentimental smile. She bats at him oh-so-lightly with one strong paw, beckoning him on, and he follows her back into the den. He doesn’t often get to visit, so he savors the familiar sight unfolding as his eyes adjust to the darkness.</p><p>He hears the squealing before he can see the source, his eyes still adjusting to the dim light. It’s a good thing he doesn’t <em>need</em> to see to know what it means. New cubs, only five or six months old by the time of year. They don’t recognize him, of course—you can’t recognize someone you’ve never met. He thinks there are two of them at first, based on the two distinct patterns of squeals, but a moment later he realizes there’s a third—it’s just that she’s taking cues from her mama and watching him calmly while her brothers panic.</p><p>He can already tell which of this litter’s cubs inherited their mama’s brain.</p><p>He glances back at the old lady and she butts her head gently against his back; <em>go on, say hello,</em> she seems to say. So he shrugs, gets down on his hands and knees, and crawls over to the cubs. (Over the years, he’s learned they tend to be less intimidated if he’s closer to their height instead of looming over them.) When he’s close, he sits and waits, cooing softly all the while.</p><p>He doesn’t have to wait long before the girl cub gets up from the pile and toddles over to him; she’s young enough to be unsteady on her feet, still, and it is <em>adorable. </em>Little bear cubs are the cutest creatures in existence and anyone who thinks otherwise had best be prepared for a fight. She sniffs his foot, and her nose and fur tickle so bad he almost jumps out of his skin—she jumps too, when he startles, and ends up tripping when her paws can’t keep up with her intended course of action. He decides to call her Tumble, after this feat of acrobatics.</p><p>He laughs, a distorted sound to a Hylian’s ear due to the early influence of bear vocalizations, and leans forward to help her back to her paws. She’s a <em>heavy </em>little fluffball—he estimates around thirty pounds—and something in his heart settles with the realization that food is not a hardship for this litter. When Tumble has her paws under her again, she stretches out over his calves like a contented cat and purrs, looking back at her nervous brothers as if to say, <em>what are you waiting for?</em></p><p>The smaller boy gets up and follows in his sister’s pawprints, stumbling over to sniff at him and slowly relaxing enough to join the pile, but the other boy needs some encouragement from his mama—the old lady circles around and nudges her third cub to his feet, then bumps her nose against his back until he finally comes over to investigate.</p><p>When all of the cubs are settled in a pile, comfortable enough with his presence to stay within reach and let him scratch their heads and ruffle their fur, the old lady lies down behind his back and he leans against her side. He feels like a little kid again, a proper cub, as he drifts off to sleep surrounded by warmth and black fur.</p><p> </p><p>The sun is warm on his back as he trails behind the old lady, keeping a watchful eye on the trio of cubs from the back of the line. Watching their clumsy efforts to catch insects and dig up roots is just as adorable as it has been with every other litter, and he can’t keep the sappy smile from his face. The old lady will make sure they have enough to eat regardless of what they catch, but their mimicking behavior is sweet to see. As they walk, he collects nuts and berries—some for him, since what <em>he </em>can eat is rather more limited than what <em>they</em> can eat, and some to give the cubs, since he loves to see their tiny faces light with something like joy.</p><p>The old lady butts her head against his shoulder, and he reaches out to scratch the fur on her neck. She tolerates it for a moment before grunting at him and walking away, stopping only to nudge the curious cubs back towards him when they try to follow her. She’s going towards the river—is she going to catch fish? And she must want him to watch the cubs. It wouldn’t be the first time, but it still warms something in his chest. He coos and purrs, catching the cubs’ attention, and then holds that attention by plying them with sweet berries. He winks at the old lady as she leaves, and he imagines that she winks back.</p><p>They’re only alone for something like ten minutes, the cubs playing instead of attempting to forage now that their mama isn’t here to mimic, when he hears it. A low wuffing sound, inhaling and exhaling in rapid succession, and the clacking of teeth. He turns around, slowly, and finds himself faced with a very large, very <em>unknown </em>male black bear. He coos, trying to call the cubs back to his side so they can leave, but Tumble apparently has more bravery than sense and approaches the newcomer instead.</p><p>The wuffing becomes a full cry as she draws near, and he makes up his mind. All he has is bravado and his voice, and he will make use of them both to the best of his ability.</p><p>He snorts, almost more of a shriek to be honest, and the male’s attention snaps back to him, Tumble going ignored in the face of what seems to be a threat. He presses that advantage, letting out a continuous, wordless cry and shifting his pitch up and down in the best imitation of an angry black bear’s threatening pulse his Hylian body can manage. As he does he stalks forward, projecting deadly intent in every motion, until he is between Tumble and the stranger.</p><p>He is <em>obviously </em>not a bear, not by sight, but he <em>smells </em>like a bear and he <em>sounds</em> like a bear, and he’ll have to hope that’s enough to buy him some time. Behind him, the larger boy cub—Bumble, he calls him—starts bawling. Hopefully the old lady is still close enough to hear it.</p><p>The male hesitates, then snorts back at him.</p><p>His heart sinks. This is not a fight he is prepared for, and not a fight he is likely to come out of the victor.</p><p>A sharp cry—a snort that is quickly followed by a pulse—sounds from the side and he risks a glance from the corner of his eye. It’s the old lady, he realizes, and tries not to let his relief show; he <em>is</em> still standing in front of an angry bear.</p><p>The old lady mimics his own earlier behavior, firmly planting herself between this interloper and her cubs, and he takes the opportunity to stoop and pick up Tumble and carry her away, not trusting the fearlessly-curious cub to follow him on her own. A short whistling cry is all it takes for Bumble and Mumble to fall in line behind him, though the former is still crying. He’ll sort that out when he has a moment, but his first priority is to get away. The oldy lady can handle a fight like that.</p><p>He brings the cubs all the way back to the den, all the way back to the safest place any of them have ever known, and he settles on the ground with Tumble still in his arms. He can’t quite bring himself to let go, knowing what might have happened. Then he shakes that thought away—no, it does no good to dwell on what-ifs or might-have-beens.</p><p>This is why he sometimes wishes he <em>was</em> a bear, instead of just bear-hearted. They don’t worry about the branching paths of the future.</p><p>Tumble wuffs and heaves a sigh, squirming out of his hold, and he lets her go because Bumble is <em>still </em>bawling. He grunts, loud but not aggressive, mimicking the old lady’s tones. Tumble coos and butts her head against his shoulder, and Mumble has shifted to soft squeals of mild distress, but Bumble doesn’t respond. He grunts again, louder, and bats an arm lightly against the distressed cub, encouraging him to come closer to the huddle. <em>That’s right, silly boy, your mama trusted me with you for a reason. You’re safe with me.</em></p><p>Tumble darts out away from him to round up her less-confident brothers, and soon he is in the center of a pile of distressed bear cubs in search of comfort. He can’t purr quite properly, what with his Hylian body, but he does his best; soon, all three cubs are purring with him.</p><p>They sit in the huddle until the old lady comes back, proud and none the worse off for her encounter, and the four of them submit with grace to her inspection, tolerating the sniffing and locking until she is confident her cubs are all unharmed.</p><p> </p><p>June ticks over to July, July to August, and summer dies like the fading light of sunset. He runs with the old lady and her youngest litter with smiles on his face and in his heart. The cubs continue to grow, more steady and more confident in their steps with every passing day. September comes, and with it the air begins to chill, and he visits those of the old lady’s elder cubs who remain in the nearby territory. The oldest girl, who he calls Gleam for the mischief in her beady eyes, has a cub of her own now. Her first litter, a lone cub she lets him fawn over only because he still smells like the old lady.</p><p>September bleeds into October, the edges bleeding together, and the ambient cold deepens, grows teeth. The old lady and her littlest litter have put on weight, getting ready to hibernate. The den is cleared of old materials, and he spends his days helping the cubs rake up leaves and twigs while the old lady constructs the rest, arranging everything precisely to her liking. October turns to November, and the blue skies melt into gray and the air becomes downright chilling. It is almost time to sleep away the winter, almost time to slumber until spring comes calling at their doorstep.</p><p>November dies not like a sunset, but like a gentle snowfall drifting down from the heavens only to melt as it touches the earth. November dies like something ephemeral, something ethereal, something that was never quite solid to begin with. November dies, and the old lady and her cubs go into hibernation, and he leaves.</p><p>He picks his way out of the forest, his arrival in reverse, his mood somber and quiet and only half-known even to him. He picks his way out of the forest, following a trail on which his calloused feet know every root and every rock, and he feels the weight of the world creeping up on him with every step. He picks his way out of the forest, his past behind him and his future before, as his choice is taken from him, at least for today. At least for the winter.</p><p>Every footfall along his path, every inch he walks closer to the fine line between the untamed places at the edge of the world and the domesticated lands beyond, he fades further from being <em>him, </em>overtake by <em>Link, the Hero of Men.</em> Consumed, devoured by the name he was given when he first wandered into the world of settled men, the identity shoved upon him by the sword he was gifted and the battle he was conscripted to fight.</p><p>He reaches the treeline, the corporeal divide between here and there, familiar and foreign, <em>home</em> and <em>public, </em>and he finds his gear stowed exactly where he left it six month before, just beyond the trees. Just on the edge of the unknown. As he swathes himself in the cloth trappings of civilization he calls hero’s garb, he feels himself becoming Atlas once more, holding up the sky. The only way he can bear the weight is the knowledge that he will be back here again when June rolls around, free to be <em>him </em>again in the care of his mama bear.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay y'all, you know the drill by now. If you read <em>Mending Links</em>, this guy is Mort. <em>Also I love him, he's a sweet feral boy.</em></p><p>Thanks for providing the motivation to actually write this, Gladi; and a thanks to those of you on the LU discord who followed along with my attempt to write something short and sweet that <em>actually</em> stayed short and sweet for once.</p><p>(Also please know that all of my bear knowledge comes from a handful of frantic google searches, that is all.)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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